


HD Contra Mundum

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, M/M, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 10:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14376687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Summary: Draco is not so sure how he ended up in Potter's best visitor's chair at St. Mungo's. But he does understand how he landed in Potter's bed.AU; EWE; Auror!Harry; PotionsMaster!Draco; top/bottom not spec'd; minor flangst; happy endings. Old fic, new home. One of Author's favs.





	HD Contra Mundum

Malfoy very carefully arranged himself: a hand here, his spine curved slightly inward to match up perfectly, his chin just there, one calf and ankle nudged between two warm legs, hairier than his and a few crucial inches shorter, hip aligned with hip and the warm curve of arse budging against his bits. It was pitch black at this hour, but he could do this with his eyes closed; often did, for that matter.

He’d shown up at St. Mungo’s, unexpected and unheralded, and proceeded to plant himself at Potter’s bedside in the Difficult Curses and Hexes Ward, for all the world as though he’d every right to be there. Oddly enough, there weren’t any Weasleys in rabid attendance nor the inimitable Hermione Granger bustling officiously nor any of the other legions of usual Potter hangers-on panting and eager to oust him on sight. Not even the annoyingly assured Weasleyette, whom Malfoy had genuinely expected to be the one claiming the nicer of the two visitors’ chairs Potter’s private room boasted.

No one but Malfoy in that armchair, day after day. No other visitors at all for Wizarding Britain’s Golden Boy but Lovegood and Parkinson, both of whom brought Draco soup and sandwiches and tea from the canteen until the candystripers finally took pity on Malfoy five days into his vigil and began sneaking in an extra tray in at mealtimes. Only Lovegood had actually come with the intention of seeing Potter ; Parkinson was there for Malfoy, as an envoy for his parents initially, and then for benefit of herself and Malfoy’s other rather astounded mates. At first she’d railed that he was being unreasonable, that his parents were terribly concerned about his uncharacteristic behaviour, that Potter would be perfectly fine, that his care wasn’t any of Draco’s business, and, as the ultimate kicker, that he was making a decided fool of himself playing at Nightingale…and then eventually she’d huffed with ill-concealed exasperation, beaten at last by Draco’s shrugs and non-answers, and was reduced to bringing him a change of clothes, takeout curry now and then, and finally a thoughtfully-packed overnight bag with his own toothbrush and private-label toiletries in.

Lovegood stopped by often at Potter’s room, but she didn’t say much. Mostly she and Potter just smiled at one another, and Malfoy manfully attempted to keep his face straight when the on-going silly grins and odd bouts of good humour encroached upon him, as though they were a rudely infectious disease he might be prone to. But Looney seemed happy enough to be relegated to the other, less comfortable chair—the one with flattened cushions and no arms--and still the Weasleyette didn’t put in a single appearance, so Malfoy settled in with a vengeance, dutifully playing chess and Snap and Solitaire and helping Potter with acrostics and crosswords during the day, reading aloud to him from  _À la recherche du temps perdu_  in the evenings. He also devoured all the potions texts Parkinson delivered at his request, and even passed them onto Potter as a soporific when Harry was feeling restless.

This was more and more often, as the curse’s effects wore off or were ably dealt with by the various Healers and Medi-Witches always in attendance. Within ten or twelve days of Draco’s arrival, Potter was sent off to Charmed Physio every two days for two hours after lunchtime; on alternate days he was escorted to a massage therapist on a different floor. 

As for Draco, he didn’t leave Potter’s room—didn’t have to, really, since Potter had a private lav and he had his wand to spell his clothes fresh, plus a Parkinson-supplied chain of the items he might require or desire. In the end, Malfoy proved resilient enough to resist all the mutterings, polite requests, outright pleas, blunt requests, orders and red-faced threats the Healers offered up in a vain attempt to remove him from his new home. These had no ill effect on Malfoy whatsoever and, as Potter simply observed every attempt and smiled that knowing grin of his, green eyes glowing, the resultant fuss contrarily pleased Draco very much indeed. Throwing up their collective hands in defeat after barely a fortnight, the St. Mungo’s staff desisted and Malfoy found he’d been tacitly accepted and even provided a cot in Harry’s room to bunk in.

He’d preferred the armchair, as that could be angled close enough to the bed so that he could grasp Potter’s hand when he was murmuring and tossing in his sleep, or perhaps lay a palm across his scarred brow or bandaged shoulder upon occasion. Malfoy did this without thinking about it; he seemed to be entirely unable to resist touching Potter and often. Potter, in turn, seemed to accept this new behavioural quirk on the part of his old arch-rival much as he’d accepted Malfoy’s presence from the get-go. With great equanimity.

“Oh?” he’d asked, twelve hours after Malfoy had first arrived, blinking continuously and obviously groggy still from various pain potions but equally obviously all in one piece and on the road to recovery.

“You’re here, Malfoy?”

“Ah,” Draco shrugged, rather helplessly, indicating that  _yes_ , for all intents and purposes, he was.

“That’s’all r’ght, then,” Potter mumbled, and dropped off back to sleep before he could even smile.  _If_  he had intended to smile, Draco remembered wondering later, but he’d firmly quashed any further speculation on that subject both then and thereafter.

To be truthful, Draco hadn’t known quite why he went to St. Mungo’s in the first place. He’d told himself it was because of Potter’s grievous and life-threatening injury, sustained in the line of duty in his current post as Junior Auror, and that he’d read about it somewhere in the papers and had consequently felt an odd, inexplicable urge to drop by and visit with his old school rival. But of course he hadn’t—reports on Potter’s nasty run-in with Doholov had been ably suppressed by the Aurors, who apparently took their duties seriously when it came to further endangering their members and thus had no qualms whatsoever about silencing the press when a known fugitive was still at large. There was not a word in any Wizarding publication about Potter’s extended recovery, his injury, or his constant ‘visitor’.

And, of course, Malfoy  _hadn’t_. Hadn’t simply dropped by, exchanged a word or two with reluctantly mustered civility, and taken himself off immediately, as he’d meant to. No. No, he’d volunteered to escort Potter home instead—Potter’s, not the Manor—and supervise him for the additional week or two the Healers considered prudent. That had been… interesting.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” Healer McGrindsley said, one Friday morning three weeks after Draco had originally stopped in on a whim. “You seem to be going along nicely now. I imagine we’ll let you go by this coming Tuesday, Merlin willing. Speaking of, have you anyone at home to, well—“

“Stay with me?” Potter had interrupted the older man, flushing a brilliant red. “No— _no_ , I—“ he’d begun, his voice rough and rather embarrassed, when Draco opened his own mouth and waved a casual hand in the Healer’s face for attention, speaking rapidly over Potter’s possible histrionics.

“I will,” he’d announced, quite calm, cool and collected. “I’ll do it.”

“Oh?” McGrindsley went pale at the very notion and his eyebrows climbed well up into his receding hairline. Draco wasn’t sure which part of his reputation had preceded him: ‘Death Eater’, ‘Malfoy’ or ‘homo’. The respectable Healer had immediately turned back to Harry with a million questions writ all over his kindly, aging face, but Potter was already nodding peaceably, that trademark cat-like grin of his developing slowly across his still-pale cheeks, like a Muggle photograph coming to light in solution.

“Oh,” Potter said, perfectly composed in the face of Draco’s startling offer. “That’s fine, then. Thanks, Malfoy.”

“Right,” Malfoy answered, and it was settled.

Which brought Draco to Potter’s bed, wide awake at some horribly illegal hour of the morning. And had him wrapped ‘round Potter like the Giant Squid or perhaps a cashmere blanket. He preferred the latter simile, but Potter didn’t seem to be bothered with either Malfoy’s shared heat or his groping hands, so either would do. Nightly, Draco settled Potter into his PJs and his well-worn Muggle-brand sheets and nightly, he wound himself carefully around Potter like a snake ‘round a caduceus. If Malfoy had been the one choosing, they’d have had long lie-ins every morning, just so he could retain the sensation of Harry breathing calmly and quietly against him for the longest possible period. Potter, however, was an execrably early riser, though he apparently also liked to keep late hours, watching his Muggle telly shows and reading novels across an assortment of genres. Draco had gotten into the habit of waking around four a.m., most days, simply to check on his charge’s health and wellbeing and wallow in that scant forty-five minutes or so of peace-and-quiet he had to himself before Potter sprang out of bed fully charged and got his day started.

It was easy enough to do this, as he was already firmly ensconced—in Potter’s house, Potter’s room and Potter’s bed. That, too, had simply happened. He’d Flooed with Potter to his house that Tuesday—the old Black family home still, most surprisingly, but a great deal nicer inside than the way Draco remembered it from his brief stay there during the war—had made Harry some tea and toast and then simply climbed onto Potter’s mattress whilst Potter took his customary evening shower and scrubbed off the lingering odor of infirmary. Malfoy hadn’t even thought about what he was doing as he did it; it was simply the thing to do, so he did.

He didn’t think about it much that first morning, either, stumbling a bit as he joined Potter in the capacious kitchen, and casually putting his arms around him to steal a rasher from the pile of bacon draining on the counter.

“Alright?” he’d inquired, still mostly asleep on his feet, and Potter nodded sharply, not turning, and Draco had then kissed the side of Harry’s pale throat with his greasy lips, just under his ear, where Potter’s skin was very soft and a pulse beat.

Potter did face him then, revolving slowly within Draco’s arms, one hand deftly switching off the burner knob, the other going up to grip Draco’s bare shoulder, and he’d brought his gaze up and up till his green eyes travelled searchingly across Draco’s rumpled hair and the planes of his pillow-marked cheekbones. As if Potter might find something worrisome hidden in Malfoy’s half-lidded grey eyes or his rather unfocused and somewhat puzzled features; as if there might still be a hint of lingering malice in the set of Malfoy’s slumping shoulders where they reached forward to embrace him, or the intimate angle of his bent neck as he thoroughly chewed up the last bite of his rasher. Draco had simply stared in return, not moving the hand he still had clasped round Potter’s waist or the one he’d returned unthinkingly to Harry’s ribcage, not knowing quite what to say, or if he had to say anything. Probably not; it was all up to Potter.

Potter laid a warm, work-roughened palm on Malfoy’s stubbly jaw, gently enough so that Draco had trouble swallowing down his mangled bite when he remembered enough to do so, and smiled. It was a lovely smile, Draco afterwards recalled, musing over it as one might reminisce over a fine wine. He’d seen that startling smile often enough to get to know it, at St. Mungo’s, and usually directed at him.

“How about you?” Potter had asked him, gaze very intent. Malfoy nodded back in a rather disjointed way, as if he were a marionette with strings gutted, and struggled harder with the bacon that seemed stuck in his gullet.

“Good,” he’d managed. “All good. Splendid.”

They’d napped together that first afternoon at Grimauld—Potter had been a little worn ‘round the edges and Draco insisted—and Malfoy there and then decided that Potter’s bed was very comfortable. A week or so spent in its confines might serve to remove the semi-permanent kinks in his spine. He’d the St. Mungo’s armchair to thank for those, but then he wouldn’t have given up that armchair for anything. He’d actually requested to purchase it, but on that subject the Healers were strangely indomitable.

His parents must’ve been sending him Owls whilst he occupied with Potter, even though he was of age and considered his own man. Eventually, one was forwarded to Grimauld via the Ministry’s official owl, and for morbid amusement Draco read it aloud to Potter over breakfast. They’d not ventured beyond rather passionate, soul-devouring snogs and handjobs at that point, but Draco was being mindful of Potter’s continued recovery and keeping to an easy pace. He’d definite hopes for more as soon as Potter deemed himself ready.

 _My Dearest Son_ , his mother had written, one week previous,  _I find it simply appalling—nay, unbelievable— that you’ve imposed yourself on Mr. Potter’s good will in this precipitous and ill-considered manner. Mr. Potter has a great many kind souls who care deeply for him; able and competent Wizards and Witches all, every one of which would genuinely appreciate the opportunity to offer their services in this, his time of need. Why, in Salazar’s Name, would you insist on investing yourself so heavily in his recuperation? From what the St. Mungo’s Healers have given us to understand, Mr. Potter is in no immediate danger, has not been for quite some considerable time, and has absolutely no need of a full-time sitter. Your presence at Grimauld House is completely irrelevant._

_Further, neither your father nor myself were aware that you considered yourself to in any way an intimate, or in such a familiar position vis-à-vis Mr. Potter that you’d feel either willing or comfortable enough to go so far as to casually invite yourself to reside within his dwelling on what appears to be an alarmingly semi-permanent basis. To the contrary, and our best recollection, your relationship with Mr. Potter has always been recriminatory, resentful and, at times, has ultimately resulted in painful physical injury to either one or both of you._

_In light of your unfortunate history and excepting, naturally, the very brief period in which we, the Malfoy family, willingly assisted the Order of the Phoenix, we would strongly suggest that you vacate Mr. Potter’s premises and return to your studies posthaste, resuming your previously chosen goal of a Masters Mundum in Potions. We fail to see any positive outcome resulting from this, your most recent flight of folly and fanciful behaviour yet._

_With great concern, and the firm expectation of your imminent return to the Manor, we remain, your Fond Parents._

“Hmm,” Potter had observed, sopping up egg yolk with his slightly burnt toast crust, “that’s trenchant.”

Draco shrugged in return, and took a sip of his tea, unconcerned. He’d no intention of abandoning Grimauld, or Potter, and his ‘concerned’ parents could continue to send Owls for years on end if they so chose.

“No matter. At least they’ve got the fancying part right,” he wiped his mouth and avoided looking at Potter too closely. “So, to market today? We need a few items and I want to revisit that Muggle coffee shop again—Buckbeak’s, was it?”

“Starbucks, Malfoy,” Potter replied, merry crinkles forming around his beautiful mouth. He’d been laughing silently again; Draco could always tell by the heightening of gold in the green, green, green of those amazing eyes of his. Draco had found that response to be quite heartening in light of his ‘folly’.

“Tell me, why would you think the Muggles would call a shop after a hippogriff?” Potter had asked him, keeping his face straight with some effort.

“Oh—you know,” Malfoy waved that off too, as it didn’t matter. “Muggles,” he’d repeated, considering that to be a suitable one word, catch-all excuse for anything odd or confusing Potter exposed him to on  _that_  side of the Leaky. There were a great many of those odd and confusing things, but Draco discovered that, as long as it was Potter explaining, the various weirdnesses—taxis, paper money, Tube turnstiles, the BBC, female fashion—were not experiences that made him feel squirmy or tainted. 

In fact, he’d enjoyed them. He’d enjoyed as well the vehement discussions of the novels they’d both read, Wizard and Muggle, the films they’d viewed, the passersby they’d watched and speculated on whilst drinking endless cups of coffee at endless bistros. He’d even relished arguing Quidditch particulars and scattered scraps of trivia from Binn’s half-remembered History classes with Potter—they’d done that all through Potter’s stay at St. Mungo’s, as Draco was perfectly articulate and just as contrary as always provided Potter didn’t ask him alarming questions about why he was there or how long he might stay.

‘One or two weeks’ became three, and then a full month. Summer bloomed around them, dusty, hot, and fragrant. Potter and Malfoy grew quite adept at divvying up the household chores and Draco was gradually and very reluctantly in process of being taught the basics of cookery by his new housemate. And vacuuming, which disgusted him, especially as the Hoover was given to snapping constantly at its own cord and then running circles ‘round Draco till he tripped down the stairs. Malfoy had persisted, though, despite the occasional conviction he’d descended fully to house elf level and all its attendant madness, and all—only—because Potter seemed to expect his ready acquiescence. He did use spells and charms for the drudge work far more often than Potter ever did, but Harry only laughed when Draco mentioned for the umpteenth time he was both abusing his barely regained health  _and_  willfully ignoring the fact that he was a powerful Wizard with such persistent foolishness.

“No. ‘S’good exercise,” he’d said, pulling up weeds in the straggly nasturtium border one sunny June morning. “Besides, I need something in lieu of physio. I’m to return to Aurors on Monday.”

That had set Malfoy back on his heels, mentally. Well…both of Potter’s casual revelations had. One, Potter’s admittance that he was in need of additional exercise. Draco could think of any number of physical activities that were both healthful  _and_  pleasurable, but he’d been waiting very patiently—for him—on Potter’s signal. Two, the Aurors. The post of Junior Auror was a dangerous one, even without ex-Death Eaters cluttering up the landscape, and Potter, therefore, would be exposed again and often to curses such as the one that had laid him low enough for Draco to actually sit up and take notice.

Malfoy freely admitted to himself that he still didn’t know why he’d ventured into St. Mungo’s that fateful day and then stayed. And stayed. And shown no signs of leaving, days and days on, when Potter’s health was demonstrably a non-issue. The Weasleys and Granger had all sent various missives to Potter over the course of time and Draco had been certain every one of them addressed the subject of his presence, and not in a complimentary way. But Potter didn’t share the contents of his letters, so Draco hadn’t been sure, precisely, of what sins and transgressions he might be being accused. This left him with scant opportunity to prepare persuasive counterarguments, but then, he’d no valid reasons to present for the majority of his more recent actions.

None, at least, that he’d wished to communicate in speech. Touch was another matter.

That same night, he’d gone ahead and addressed at least one item on his updated agenda. The usual snog-and-grope had progressed rapidly into something  _more_ —more heated, more impassioned, more erotic. Potter had responded like a champ to his every advance, handing Draco back what he got and then some. It was exhilarating for Malfoy, to be so ridiculously aware it was Harry he crouched over, Harry he sucked off, Harry who writhed uncontrollably beneath him and screamed out Malfoy’s name as he came.

Malfoy had nothing to say—no words, at least not organized in a sensible, logical, grammatical order—to explain how he felt when Potter snagged back the initiative and proceeded to put him through his paces. Later, he vaguely remembered showing Potter where and to shove his fingers for maximum effect, gasping out numerous peremptory commands like ‘Harder!” and such sincere compliments as ‘Fuck, Potter!’, but the emotions that roiled around under his shivering skin that night—and felt as though they were pouring through it in a flood-tide whenever Harry twisted his hips just that way or nipped sharply at his jaw line—those were not readily definable.

Draco was left gasping and limp, and desperately in hopes of further, shared explorations into this new arena. He also came away with the distinct impression Potter was of much the the same opinion, especially given Potter’s interest in a no holds barred rematch shortly after the initial bout.

The fateful Monday arrived all too soon and Potter jauntered off merrily at the crack of dawn while Malfoy was still in process of wrapping his esophagus around his first cuppa. He despised the resultant deathly silence in the house within the period of just ten minutes, and proceeded to alternately jitter and mope through the remainder of the day. It helped not at all that Potter was terribly bright and upbeat upon his return, an hour after Malfoy expected him, or that the dinner he’d cobbled together was stone cold.

Halfway through that following Tuesday, Malfoy had a breakthrough of sorts: he consciously acknowledged that Potter’s Auror post frightened him practically pissless. He’d thrown himself body and soul into pleasuring Harry the night previous, offering himself up like a trollop, and had ended the evening nearly unconscious with a surfeit of Potter. But it was not enough to satisfy, not for any length of time exceeding eight hours, and not when he’d grown used to a steady diet of Potter.

It was the intentional act of deliberating over the recent events in his life—going to Potter, staying with Potter, refusing to leave Potter under any provocation, real or imagined—against the potential canvas of a Potter not being willing or able to tolerate his continued presence that led Draco Malfoy skittering to the very edge of a genuine nervous collapse.

Perhaps it was then that the dreamlike quality of Malfoy’s days came to a sad end. He’d done so well by not digging too deeply. He’d acted; Potter accepted. He’d ventured; Potter edged closer still. Now he considered, and Potter wavered on the rim of his previous untouchable state, which was in no way acceptable to a Malfoy who’d risked a very great deal—much of it incomprehensible to a person of Potter’s sort—to be where he was that day.

If Potter was no longer available to Malfoy, then what? If it was choice on Potter’s part, then that would be one question settled and Malfoy would take himself off—gutted, to be sure—but thus far Harry had proved remarkably amenable to being imposed upon. If it was instead purely a circumstantial event, perhaps unfurling entirely out of his and Potter’s control, then Malfoy’s reaction to a loss of Potter in his daily routine would differ in the extreme.

For the hour or so at midday that Malfoy spent perched motionless in the comfortably familiar armchair he’d purchased at John Lewis and blinking sightlessly at the unlit hearth, he’d entertained only one thought, cycling and recycling, and it was a very bleak one.

“Can you quit?” he’d asked Potter the moment he’d stumbled out of the Floo that evening. “I mean, would it be a problem? Because I really can’t bear it, Potter.”

“Huh?” Potter had replied, blank-faced and dusting ash off his person. “What?”

“Your post. Can you resign, effective immediately? Will you?” Malfoy explained himself—well, he hadn’t explained, precisely, but he’d requested  _again_. “Please,” he’d added, politely, to ensure Harry understood just how important this was for him.

“But. But, why?”

Potter’s tone had been strange. Appalled, perhaps, or simply very startled. Angered? Malfoy had been basking lizard-like in Potter’s relatively relaxed and easy state for weeks on end at that point, excepting perhaps that first ten or twelve days of physical discomfort while at St. Mungo’s, when Potter was understandably snappish, and he was rather abruptly taken aback by the stringent fear the markedly different note in Potter’s voice sent lancing through his midsection.

“It’s ridiculous,” he’d replied, attacking instead. “You’ve done more than enough for the world, Potter—time to get out and call it quits while you still can.”

Draco took over the soot removal process at that point, hands running carefully over Harry as if to make certain the man was indeed solid, and let himself inhale. Warm; sweaty: good. Home, all in one piece and accounted for: better.

“Wait,” Potter stammered, quiescent, at least, with Malfoy’s lightning fast setting-to-rights. “I don’t what you’re talking about, Malfoy, but I can’t just—“

Draco had developed the strong and unswerving opinion over the course of the remainder of Tuesday that this obvious next step was crucial to Harry’s wellbeing; every day Potter spent on Auror work was a day he spent deliberately courting oblivion. It had to be halted, and immediately. Malfoys did not allow their—their Potters to continue exposing themselves unnecessarily to such harrowing conditions.

“ _Look_ ,” he’d hurried to offer over Potter’s objections, “look, let’s go out, get some dinner or something; a bottle of wine. And, ah, er—discuss this, Potter.”

Harry blinked at him for a long—very long—moment with those eyes of his, and eventually got around to nodding ‘yes’.

“I’m not sure what exactly we’re going to discuss, Malfoy, since this is my  _job_ you’re talking about, but…well. All right,” he’d agreed, sounding dubious. “I  _am_  kind of famished and you haven’t started dinner yet, have you?”

Malfoy flushed with faint shame. He had not, though it was most definitely his responsibility, being the one at home all day, ostensibly with little to do other than review Potions. But he had been occupied with his own scrambled psyche to the point of disregarding all the normal, physical needs.

Funny how constant anxiety did that to one.

Malfoy plied Potter with an Australian red all through dinner, and ate his eggplant lasagna in neat bites whilst contemplating various politic ways of reproaching his request. Potter blanketed the strange little silences that arose between them with easy comment, as if he were the one deathly afraid the dialogue they’d established so readily in St. Mungo’s might stop, or derail, or be blown up by unseen landmines.

“Dawlish said today I need to work on my Disallusionment,” he’d nattered, mouth full of chicken Parmesan. “I guess I’ve let it slip too often when I’m concentrating on DADA.”

“H’erm,” Malfoy nodded in return, and hated intensely that Potter might feel the need for DADA at this point in his short and horridly heroic life, post-Voldemort. He’d rearranged his salad into a geometric pattern in place of mentioning that, however, and kept his peace, waiting for just the right moment, the optimum strike.

“Suppose I’ve always relied too much on my cloak all these years and now I’m not as practiced as I was when the war was on,” Potter sipped at his newly refilled glass. “Spoilt, I am, and I’ll never be allowed to carry it in the field—not standard issue, y’see. Unfair advantage to have it on, Dawlish said. Like  _that’s_  sensible. I’d say rather we need every bloody advantage we’ve got.”

“Potter, about that—“ Malfoy had started. “You really can’t.” The line of Potter’s shoulders tightened visibly under his dress shirt. So did his generous mouth, lips thinning into a narrow line that boded no good for momentous, life-altering decisions. He looked his plate instead of Malfoy.

“I’d rather you didn’t—” Malfoy tried again.

And stopped, full halt. He knew a lost cause when it slammed him in the chin. Potter wasn’t near relaxed enough to truly listen to Draco’s perfectly reasonable objections; Potter, perversely, seemed to take actual delight in having senior Aurors order him about like a minion when he was the one solely responsible for their continued existence.

“Mmm?” Potter had muttered, his green gaze sliding very deliberately elsewhere. “What? Oh, say, Malfoy—isn’t that your friend Parkinson? What’s she doing here?”

‘Here’ had been the finest Italian establishment in the city, and Parkinson had come only because Draco had recommended it in one of the frequent and chatty Owls he’d sent her way.

Draco turned his head away sharply from Pans and her date—Ravenclaw, wasn’t he?—and picked in a discontented fashion at the breadcrumbs spilt across the tablecloth, bolting down the remainder of his wine like there was no tomorrow. He’d prayed with all his heart Pans notice their existence, decide to stroll over and stick her nose right in. That would sink the entire uncertain situation irretrievably and Malfoy was sure Potter was already at odds with him. He was not in his usual cooperative mood, apparently, and Malfoy felt certain that on the morrow Potter would once again trot out the door to Aurors, unfazed.

Wednesday came and went and Potter did, as well, to Malfoy’s great personal dissatisfaction. He shattered a teacup, expressing that.

That Sunday morning following, though, events finally came to a head. Malfoy had sulked visibly through the remainder of the week. He’d also burnt his familial bridges in a completely headstrong fashion, having had a serious contretemps with his stridently ‘concerned’ parental units over his future, the distinct unlikelihood of additional Malfoy heirs arising via natural childbirth, and his indescribable dependence on Potter. This resulted in Grimauld being suddenly blessed with rather more furniture than it was used to and hordes of knick-knacks, the entirety of Malfoy’s extensive wardrobe, his Quidditch gear, private Potions lab, private library, a newly constructed Wizarding stable in the back garden containing several well-bred steeds and an ass, a Kneazle of ill-repute called Agamemnon—ginger and viciously a full tom, with a rakishly torn ear—and a permanent change of Owl address on Malfoy’s part.

All of this Potter had accepted with nary a blink or a negative murmur. He was tacitly agreeable as well with Malfoy’s determined purchase of a series of items that were designated specifically as ‘theirs’: cutlery, sterling, defiantly monogrammed ‘MP’; a practice Quidditch pitch on the other end of the magically much-enlarged back garden, complete with shower-equipped storage shed; a Muggle answering machine with a pre-recorded female voice saying ‘Harry and Draco aren’t home right now. Please leave a message,’ and lifetime box seats in their names for Puddlemere, the one team they’d agreed to possibly agree on.

All of these things Malfoy acquired via Owl, agent or Muggle telephone, having refused to venture out the door of No. 12. The showdown with his parents was conducted primarily via Floo call; house elves delivered his possessions after.

Potter, for his part, warily kept his head down, weathering the emotional storm clouds swirling ‘round the person of his housemate, and ventured out several times in the evenings whilst Malfoy was busy with furiously rearranging the lay and purpose of the majority of the rooms on the second and third floors, excepting only Harry’s bedroom. Potter even took an unexplained personal day that following Friday, which he spent by himself doing Merlin-knew-what.

Malfoy contented himself with not knowing details provided there were no Aurors involved and instead had three decreasingly difficult conversations with two Gryffindors and the maddening Weaseleyette, who’d chosen the worst of all possible moments to return from her Harpies tour.

“No,” Malfoy had stated categorically, when the bint had requested entry at bloody nine o’clock in the morning, which wasnot a civilized hour for visitors. “Potter’s not here. And you can’t come for coffee.”

“Then I’ll wait, Malfoy,” she’d sneered, and half-heartedly attempted to muscle through the barrier Draco’d had screening the Floo. Useless, of course, as Malfoy could’ve told her, had he bothered. The Floo had been keyed only to those both he and Potter wished to entertain in their home, and Potter was not present to allow this—this invasion. “As Harry has actually invited  _me_.”

“Hah!” Malfoy had exclaimed, briefly startled. He’d thought immediately of Harry that very morning; the lissome slide of flesh on flesh, the fevered snogging, as if their very lives depended on it. No; no, Potter couldn’t have. Not Harry.

“He would’ve mentioned it; he did no such thing,” Draco informed her.

“Oh, come now, Malfoy—Harry doesn’t tell you every little thing,” the Weasleyette came right back at him, fighting. He could see why she was an excellent Beater. “He  _is_  expecting me, though.” 

“Well, he’s not here now,” Malfoy replied shortly. “Call back, if you wish,” he’d then advised the wench in his coldest, most cutting voice, having firmly composed himself. “After dinner, perhaps, when  _Harry_ will be home. With  _me_. Perhaps then you might care to explain why you’ve been so conspicuously absent these last two months, Weasley—or perhaps there  _is_  no polite explanation for your oversight. Makes no difference to  _me_ , at least, either way. You still aren’t welcome.”

“You’re a bloody berk,” the cheeky little brat informed him, and had the gall to giggle like a bloody schoolgirl as she flung back that long hair that looked just like Potter’s mother’s, “and you need to get over yourself, you stuck-up, jealous cat. We’re not like that,  _Draco_.”

But Malfoy had closed the Floo in a decisive fashion, and firmly returned to his self-ordained task of adding shelving to the second, smaller library to allow for his additional texts on Potions, accumulated during his unusual stay as a ‘guest’ at St. Mungo’s. He was strictly conscientious about manually ordering these by author, though normally he’d have used a charm to do it. Jealousy was not an emotion Malfoys suffered lightly.

If he spent a non-productive hour tracing figures on the carpet with his finger and fidgeting pointlessly, there was no there to see.

The Weasel himself interrupted Malfoy’s paltry lunch of a tuna salad sandwich and an apple. Draco was installed in his favorite armchair and trying not to eye the clock more than once every few minutes. He didn’t eat particularly well in Potter’s absence. Especially when he knew Potter was out gallivanting around somewhere, without him.

“Harry? Harry? Is he there, Malfoy?” The Weasel was cautiously polite these days, despite that spate of letters that no doubt maligned Malfoy. Draco relished this new attitude with a curious fervor—yet another shining example of Potter’s acceptance—to the point where he’d made numerous attempts to be civil to the Weasleys in return, Ron especially.

“…No,” Malfoy answered, when he’d finished dealing with his mouthful. “But he’ll be back at home ‘round six. D’you want to come through and leave him a note?”

“No—no, that’s alright, Ferr--Malfoy. It’s just that he’s not come to work today and I thought he might be sick still—“

“Mmm, no. He’s fine. Potter’s, ah, taken a personal holiday. Ron.”

“Oh—er!” Weasel muffled a yelp and then frowned mightily, as if the words ‘holiday’ and ‘Potter’ together in one sentence were an anathema to him.

 “Bollocks! He was supposed to hold off on this shite! Do  _you_  know—no,  _you_ wouldn’t, would you?”

“On  _what_?” Malfoy queried him instantly, wishing to be informed of all and anything relating to Potter and willing, these days, to ask for it. “Do I know  _what_? What precisely  _are_  you referring to, Weasley?”

“Nothing—nothing! Bugger all! That tears it!”

The Weasel—Ron—had progressed rapidly to being red-faced and unnecessarily short, or so Malfoy thought, and he himself had done nothing to elicit that. Draco bristled a bit in reaction.

“Very well,” he replied sharply. “Suit yourself, Weasley.”

“ _Look_ —!“ The Weasel was urgent. “ _Ferr_ —er, Malfoy! Tell Harry to Floo me  _first thing_ , the minute he walks in the door,  _before_  he does anything too... _too drastic_. Don’t forget! And, er, thanks, Ferr—Malfoy. I’ve gotta bounce now, right? Break’s over. Be seeing you.”

The Floo shut down abruptly on the Weasel’s end, leaving Draco both puzzled and suspicious.

As a result, Malfoy only ate half his sandwich, giving the rest to Agamemnon. He stewed over various ginger-haired persons who should’ve been more properly named ‘Stoat’ or ‘Badger’ for the remainder of the afternoon, and religiously organized potions ingredients.

“Hiya, Malfoy,” Neville Longbottom’s face appeared in the Floo at quarter till six that evening, when Draco was off-handedly wandering through the drawing room again for the third time that hour. “Is Harry back yet?”

He and Longbottom had achieved a truce of sorts long ago, when they were still at Hogwarts. Malfoy actually allowed himself a small smile, the first of his day.

“Hallo, yourself, Longbottom. Soon, but not yet. I’m expecting him any minute now. Want to step over? Have a pre-prandial sherry to celebrate the weekend?”

“No, thanks all the same, Malfoy. I’ve still Staff Dinner to get through yet, same as usual. And it’s Hogsmeade weekend tomorrow—joy, oh, rapture,” Neville said, dryly. ”Just ask Harry to Floo me when he gets a moment, would you? No hurry.”

“Sure thing, Longbottom.”

Curiouser and curiouser, Draco decided, and determined immediately to feel out Potter when he arrived. Malfoys abhorred mysteries and things they couldn’t readily explain. Gryffindors with secrets were particularly irritating; it shouldn’t be allowed.

For that matter, Draco had rather been wishing for an opportunity to trot another person through the various rooms he’d been actively rearranging since Wednesday afternoon. Perhaps obtain an unbiased third-party opinion, so as to ensure there was nothing he’d done that Potter might secretly dislike. It was still  _Potter’s_  house, officially. For now. He’d Pan’s views about décor impressed upon him, naturally, but she didn’t know Potter like those pesky Gryffindors did and Granger—the ultimate Potter expert and go-to—only ever called at Grimauld when Harry was at home, so Malfoy hadn’t had a chance to corner her privately. The Weasel had stubbornly resisted any overtures to enter the Black House without Potter’s presence.

Not that Malfoy would’ve known quite how to go about approaching Granger. It stymied him, Potter’s easy relationship with his mates, for it was nothing like the way he dealt with his own. Indeed, Potter stymied him, still. He couldn’t comprehend the bloody Buddha-like acceptance on Harry’s part, when such an attitude had been so foreign to them both for nearly all the years they’d known one another. Of course, they’d spent weeks at a time during the war working together and even coexisting in this very same house, but even that—even that had been too short, and too pockmarked with Malfoy’s undying hatred of the Weasleyette and his unreasoning terror of the werewolf, his not-so-secret fear of the Dark Lord’s likely retribution on his nearest and dearest and then, of course, his overweening certainty that Potter’s grudging politeness to him would only end calamitously in yet another pointless battle of hexes and bad blood.

It hadn’t, but neither had they achieved friendship, or anything like it.

He’d retreated back to the Manor as soon as the war and the trials were over with, glad, he told himself, to be well out of it. Had chosen Potions as his lifework. Had been very pleased—privately, and with a bottle of champagne in his room— to hear via the gossip grapevine that Potter was safely out of St. Mungo’s after his final bout with the Dark Lord and off to a new life sans prophecies. He’d felt no need to interfere or seek Potter out or mend any fences not already cleared.

It had been a bland two years after. Malfoy had not wasted his time with regret or any of that nonsense. He’d simply moved on, as he’d been advised by his grateful-to-be-relatively-unscathed parents. And by his fellow House mates, those that lived, who found him strangely defanged and listless after events. Those very few of his mates that had trickled back from the Continent or South America, that was, and carefully took up the threads of lives greatly changed by ‘the war to end all wars’.

But it hadn’t ended for Potter. Malfoy had read the headlines concerning Potter’s unsurprising choice of vocation with trepidation. He’d followed his old archrival’s career surreptitiously and with increasingly urgent disapproval. Not that he’d ever ventured to approach Potter about his concerns. Potter was an adult, self-supporting, and curiously free of entanglements, though it had rather looked as if the Weasleyette planned to provide those. But instead she’d hared off to the Harpies to play Beater after graduating and Granger had gone on to Flamel University and the Weasel had joined up at Aurors with Potter. Longbottom, Draco’s one in with the Golden Trio, had practically buried himself at Hogwarts, learning the little he hadn’t sopped up already of Herbology. Only a few Gryffs remained in town and thus available for a stalking Malfoy to eavesdrop on, and the little scraps he could scarf up were not encouraging.

Perhaps that was it. He’d heard something, somewhere, maybe in Diagon, maybe in the Leaky or Flourish & Botts or Potage’s—a word or two from a passing compatriot of Potter’s—and had then taken it as a sign he should go to St. Mungo’s. Built it up in his head as though it were a personal prophecy, just for him. Same as Trelawney’s omens, mostly wishful thinking, but with a germ of truth.

That would explain it, this whole St. Mungo’s business. Draco felt he owed Potter a debt, after all, for the Fiendfyre matter. He’d overheard some gossip that had convinced him he had to go to St. Mungo’s, see Potter, tell him to cease once and for all this idiotic savior act. And he’d stayed, once he’d got there, under the impression Potter needed assistance in changing his stubborn, short-sighted views on employment. The Weasleyette wasn’t stepping up, that was certain. So here he was in Grimauld, having inserted himself neatly into Potter’s life, and still trying desperately to save it in return for Harry’s saving his; preserve Harry from the fruits of his own foolishly accepting nature.

Life was for the living, after all. Malfoy had to ensure Potter understood that simple fact, and admit freely that it wasn’t all about  _him_ this time. There were others who could take the hit. Others who could be injured, maybe die, in the course of duty. Potter couldn’t. He needed to live. Draco needed him to live.

That was all there was to it.

Malfoy didn’t say go so far as to blurt out this unshakable certitude to Potter that Friday night. The pressure was off, after all. They had the weekend to look forward to.

So, they’d had a nice, relaxing dinner instead and gone out after to catch a show at the Muggle cinema. Saturday was packed full of all the errands—the ones they normally did together during the week before last, when Harry had still been at home full-time, recuperating. Draco had bloody well refused to do those things without Potter, so the day was jammed with necessary shopping for groceries and visiting with Aunt Andromeda and young Teddy Lupin and returning missed Floo calls and so forth. They’d ended up having all their meals out and then met up with a few mutual school friends that night for drinks and had stumbled home quite late.

Malfoy had taken extra care the next morning to demonstrate to Potter that he was absolutely necessary for Draco’s continued serenity.

Thus it was late Sunday afternoon when he allowed himself to bring up the tricky subject of Potter quitting Aurors. Draco had chosen the moment very carefully. After brunch but before supper, so they wouldn’t be concerned with mundane concerns like hunger. At home, so they wouldn’t be interrupted unduly. Over tea, so he’d have the creamer and the sugar and the pot itself to fiddle with if he was overly nervous and Potter would be occupied with a Meissen cup-and-saucer instead of his wand.

And he’d walked Harry through the house first, escorting him to all the rooms Harry never bothered with normally; ascertaining that Potter approved the new paint schemes, the placement of the extra furniture and accoutrements. The portraits of the very few Malfoy relatives who still regarded Draco as one of their own, the musical instruments, the various collections of items from Draco’s spoilt boyhood at the Manor. It was true Draco’s own father was threatening to disinherit him at this point, which was a fine kettle of red herring, but he didn’t bother Potter with that. Details were immaterial; Malfoy hadn’t survived the war merely to submissively let go of what he needed at someone else’s bidding, even his honored, twice-disgraced father’s.

But that wasn’t the crux of this carefully set-up confrontation. For the first thing, Malfoy wanted it clearly stated that Potter had no objections to having Draco’s possessions integrated into the house’s interior, right along with Draco himself. More, that it pleased him to allow this.

It seemed to; Harry exclaimed over the 18th century painted Dutch bureaus in the updated guest room, touched the walnut burled shelving and polished brass fixtures in the two libraries with careful fingers, admired the newly arranged Potions lab in his basement with wide-eyed awe. He liked the colors—blues and greens, creams and purples, interspersed with brilliant scarlet and lime accents, black-on-black and brushed metal. Antique iron curlicues and damask swags in one room; the best of the modern Danish designers in the next. The Black House was all about contrast and comfortable oddity; eclectic, in a word. Draco felt it suited them, coming together as they had.  

“It looks really nice, Malfoy,” Potter complimented him, accepting his cup. “I like what you’ve done.”

“Thank you,” He paused, took a deep breath. “Of course I wish to stay here, Potter,” were the words Malfoy actually chose to begin, tea cups duly refreshed. “With your kind permission, naturally. And—and I was quite,  _quite_  serious about your Auror position. You need to give up on that ridiculous notion, Potter. There are far better things you could be doing with your time—jobs that won’t outright kill you when you’re not watching.”

Draco felt stilted. No doubt his practiced speech came across that way, as well. But passion had its proper place and so did honesty. He could only dream knowingly for so long.

“Really?” Potter’s eyebrows went up, though Malfoy wasn’t sure which of his polite demands elicited that. “Of course you’re more than welcome to stay here, Malfoy, “ he parroted back. “I mean—you’re already here, aren’t you?”

As if that was it. One subject neatly closed, the other avoided, easy peasey. Malfoy straightened his spine and got on with it.

“I’ve—I’ve gone ahead and spoken with Lovegood on your behalf,” he said, watching Potter very carefully. “And also Professor McGonagall. Both of them would be more than pleased to interview with you, Har— _Potter_.” 

Draco had to be very careful not to overstep his boundaries. They’d only ever used surnames. Though he’d often cried out ‘Harry!’ in their bed, in the dark, and Potter had been known to moan ‘ _Draco_ ’. 

Harry made no immediate demur, other than raising his eyebrows a tad higher. Sipped his tea; avoided Draco’s pointed stare with startling ease.

“There are other options, too—Zabini has a thriving import/export business, you know, and old Ollivander’s very close to retirement,” Draco felt compelled to keep talking. “He’d be interested in an apprentice. And the Weasley that’s got the joke shop—I know you’re already an investor. You could get more involved in the day-to-day, Potter. There’s any number of jobs you could be doing instead of—instead of risking your life on a daily basis.”

Still nothing. Potter had always smiled and nodded before, almost from the moment Malfoy had claimed his chair. He’d always said ‘That’s alright, Malfoy’ and let Malfoy stay. 

“I’m sure you don’t wish to dwell on it, but your famous luck’s going to run out sometime, Potter,” Draco went on, dogged and with a slight sheen of perspiration beading across his furrowed forehead. “I, for one, wouldn’t be able to live with myself if it happened on  _my_ watch,” he stated. This was true. He’d expire.

Malfoy waited expectantly, breathing hard for some reason.

“Hmm,” Potter murmured. “You don’t say.”

No other response, but continued measured tea sipping and body language that betrayed not a smidgeon of the disquiet Draco fancied he could practically see, lurking in the corners of the drawing room. Malfoy wondered tangentially when Potter had learned to be so very collected when a normally perfectly sane person was making a huge idiot of himself not two feet away—was this the result of Auror training or was it simply that Potter had perforce learnt control, much as Malfoy had?

But that was not cogent to the situation in hand. Malfoy was once again in a position where he was forced to challenge Potter and he was, contradictorily, the same nominally sane person who’d invaded Potter’s life deliberately.  _Unasked_ , as the Weasleyette had pointed out.  _Drastic_ , the Weasel called it.

And even Longbottom, who was supposedly a friendly face, even  _he_ had refused to set foot in what was essentially Draco’s drawing room, just as recently as this last Friday.  _Potter’s_  house, of course, but still. 

Malfoy panicked suddenly, throwing out diversions left and right. He slapped his tea things onto the low table, rattling the whole surface, and arched his neck in the manner of one of his prized stallions, staring Potter down in a haughty fashion.

“Or— _or_  you don’t have to work at all—we’ve the funds, Potter,” he bit out, enunciating every syllable. “More than sufficient, believe me. We could travel. I’d bet my back teeth you’ve never even been to Brighton, much less the Caribbean, Harr— _Potter.”_

His voice slowed, echoing the seductive susurration of warm seas so clear they were teal and purple, the moon reflecting back a sheen silver-bright as Draco’s eyes.

“It’s beautiful there, Potter—we could stay…on the beach. We’ve a cottage in the Virgin Islands, on Jost Van Dyke. Or there’s the Maldives. Maybe even Antibes. You’d like it there, I’m sure—there’s Roman ruins.”

Malfoy looked down at his hands, which clasped themselves tightly together in his lap. His fingers were white with tension; they’d snap if he exerted a little more pressure; quite painful, really.

“Or not. That could be later—when you’re settled,” Malfoy nodded decisively, agreeing with himself. No need to rush on the holiday aspect, but then again, there was also no question Potter would eventually agree to walk away from his well-paying death-wish—Malfoy simply needed to continue insisting. He’d enlist the aid of all these influential people in Potter’s circle he’d name-dropped already if needs warranted.

“You even might wish to start your own business, instead. There’s curse-breaking and Charms, defensive spells—I know you’re good at those. Some sort of self-protection seminars, perhaps? And then— _I’m_  in the midst of getting my Masters Mundum in Potions, Potter, as you’re aware—I’ll be finished the coursework and Thesis Ars Magica by next May. We could partner in that after; set up a mail-order company for medicines or supplies or whatnot.”

Draco decided he’d toss alternatives at Potter till he gasping blue, but he would not give up. Malfoys didn’t, as a rule. He loved his chair. His horses were more than satisfied with their new quarters, with the convenient Muggle park a few blocks away for exercise. Aggie was probably out siring scads of half-Kneazle kittens at that very moment, up and down the street. Potter’s bed was very comfortable.

Potter quietly finished his tea whilst Draco wittered on about this, that and the other; he leaned forward, placed the cup and saucer on the tray with slow deliberation and grace. Looked up at Malfoy’s tense face at last and the eyes full-on were so very green Malfoy was utterly transfixed, as he had been from the first moment he’d caught sight of them, in the robe shop. At St. Mungo’s. In his dreams.

Malfoy fell silent, at last.

“Don’t you think—?” Potter started, snorted a bit and went on. “Don’t you think that’s rather  _presumptuous_ , Malfoy? Rearranging a man’s life like this?”

“Ah,” Malfoy began. He shrugged.  _Yes_.

“That perhaps I might resent having you barge in and take over? I mean, you’ve pretty much taken over everything else, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Malfoy admitted aloud, grudgingly. But he’d had a good reason; the best.

“Telling me to quit my job, when all I ever wanted was to be an Auror—that’s rich, Malfoy. All because you’ve a wild hair up your arse about me dying. Talk about lack of confidence.” Potter’s tone was just as cutting as Malfoy’s could be when he was repelling unwanted callers. Draco winced, put an errant hand out wildly, feeling the blood rush back into his tingling fingers.

“Potter—Potter, it’s for the best, really,” Draco said, struggling to remain composed. “You’ll die if you keep this up—no one can do what you do and expect to live to old age, Potter. Why d’you think the retirement pension’s so good for Aurors? There’s no one left to take advantage of the pool, Har—Potter! It’s a bloody tonton and believe me, you’ll  _always_  be the loser! The odds are against you!”

Potter chuckled—laughed out loud—which was so amazingly inappropriate to the tension slathering the room Draco felt his outstretched hand fall away as the atmosphere shattered. He clasped his knee through his thin linen trousers instead and squeezed it hard, enduring. The air had changed, abruptly; there was heat lightning in place of storm clouds, and he was very much exposed.

“You know, Malfoy, I just have to disagree with you,” Harry’s emerald gaze glittered with malice; the words were diamond-edged. “I’ve died once already and my ‘luck’, as you call it, is fucking excellent—it’s like a daily dose of Felix, you know?”

Malfoy didn’t know. Had not known anything like ‘luck’—what he had now—till turning up uninvited at St. Mungo’s. 

“ _Potter_ —“

Potter leaned forward with snake-like swiftness; stuck his own hand out. He grabbed at Malfoy’s forearm and gripped it, hard.

“You can’t have everything you want, Malfoy. Not everything,” he said softly.

“I want you alive!” Draco burst out. “Potter!”

“And I’m glad to hear it, but,” Harry began.

“But  _nothing_ , Harry!  _Nothing_  is as important as that—can’t you  _see_?” Draco pleaded. “Please?”

Harry moved instead of replying with yet more words, budging over on the sofa till he slid right up against Malfoy’s heaving chest. He laid his head against it, digging the sharp edges of his spectacles into Draco’s collarbone, making himself at home there. Stiffly, and only after a faltering moment, Malfoy laid his arms carefully about Potter’s shoulders, and patted at him here and there a tad awkwardly, primarily to restrain himself from ill-bred clutching.

“Malfoy,” Potter soothed. “Malfoy. Calm down for half a sec, okay? Listen.”

“...Alright.” More of a huff than anything else, Draco’s agreement hid nothing of his displeasure at being ‘handled’.

“I got a letter from your father.”

“What?” Well—that was the  _last_  thing Draco needed to hear if he was to be petted back into tranquility.

“He wanted to know where I was getting off, seducing you. Claimed I must’ve been using an Imperio on you; Confunding you, maybe, all this time. Told me I was a prick, pretty much, for making you stay here, against your will.”

“What!?”

“Your mum’s upset, too—crying and fussing, your father says. Doesn’t know what’ll become of you when I’m done exacting my petty ‘revenge’ or whatever. It was a lovely letter,” Harry mused, contemplatively. “More like a Howler, but still. Nice to know he cares, right?”

“Gah.”

Malfoy closed his eyes in desperation; this could only get worse before it got better, it was so very far out of his ken. He arranged himself carefully around Potter defensively, enfolding him within knees and elbows and chin. He could do that with eyes shut, and often did.

“So, I went to see them Friday, right?” Potter said to Draco’s throat, shifting a tad, settling in. “Thought I’d try to talk sense into them, or something. Since they’ve sent the wind up Aunt Andy’s arse, and she Owled me, too.”

“ _Ohgods!”_ Draco gasped. Potter’s somewhat chatty relation of impossible events had begun to truly sink in. “Salazar, Potter! A-And then? What did they say to you?”

“Rather uncomfortable meeting, all around,” Potter shrugged. “I think your father would’ve liked to hex me blind the entire time I was sitting there, but…well, yeah. ” Harry continued. “We came to terms, after a bit.”

“Yes? Go on.” A quick nudge inward, as Malfoy was on tenterhooks, much as he’d been the first time he’d shagged Potter.

“Said he wouldn’t cut you out—not that he  _can_ ; it’s almost all entailed, as I’m sure you know—and he’d be willing to stop sending the  _Prophet_  letters about me sexually harassing you—“

“No! Oh, Merlin,  _no_! Say he  _didn’t_ , Potter!”

“Erm, yes,” Potter wriggled in Draco’s death-grip, seeking to inhale regularly through the bone-grinding increase of pressure. “Yeah, well. It’s  _your_  father, Malfoy. Why d’you think I went in the first place? The man’s a bleeding wingnut, alright? At least your mother can be sensible.”

Malfoy caught his breath, impetuous words poised on the tip of his tongue, but he would  _not_ defend his volatile pater to Potter. Not ever again.

“Anyway, turns out what he  _really_  needs is someone to take over the management of your Malfoy gazillions on a day-to-day basis,” Potter was unbuttoning Draco’s shirt as he spoke. “ _You’re_  plainly not interested, since you’ve got your pointy head in a filtreing flask most of the time, and the position’s got to be filled by someone you toffee-nosed pureblood gits feel you can trust not to scam you six ways from Sunday.”

“ _Har_ — _Potter!_?” Any number of possible alternate realities—unhinged from the current—spread themselves out for Malfoy’s purview; he only wished he’d a clue as which he’d ended up in.

“Right—just what you’re thinking, Malfoy,” Harry sent him a glance of admiration for Draco’s non-existent perspicuity. “Spot on. Who better than  _me_ , the Boy Who Is a Fucking Genuine Wizarding Hero, right? Totally in the public’s eye; proved myself already. Got tonnes of Galleons of my own; don’t need yours.  _Very_ trustworthy prospect, if I do say so myself.”

Potter giggled himself into snorts at that. He cuffed Malfoy on the shoulder, too. “You should’ve seen his face, though, Malfoy—gods! I thought he’d die of apoplexy all the time he was laying it out—and your mum, all prune-faced. Hah!”

“I don’t believe this,” Ignoring the blow and the low-class snuffling, Draco laid his head on top of Potter’s mop and sighed gustily, exhausted. “No, no. Not buying into this one bit, Potter. Too farfetched.”

“Wait—it gets better, Malfoy,” Draco could feel the feline grin right through his skin. “Evidently there’s still a Potter estate left, other than my parent’s cottage in Godric’s Hollow. Your father tracked it down some time ago—we must’ve have been at St. Mungo’s still, which reminds me. Exactly what were you telling them about me in your Owls?”

“N-Nothing that wasn’t true, Potter,” Draco swallowed. “Keep going, please.”

“I  _bet_. Right, so it’s a viable property, this place, with a sizeable Home Farm. The main house is in total disrepair—I suppose Voldemort might’ve had something to do with that, but whatever. That’s just money, and there are locals who can fix it up for us. Be good for the economy, actually.”

“Very sensible,” Malfoy said. The thought of his father and Potter calmly discussing land management was mind-boggling. The thought of Potter and his father discussing  _anything_   _at all_  rendered him practically speechless. Truly, anything he might say to Potter for the next little while must be excused, on the grounds he was actively experiencing some sort of waking nightmare.

“There’s still a gatehouse that’s livable, though, so it’s not all bad,” Potter confided, apparently oblivious to Malfoy’s state and condition. “Could use it for weekends in the summer, I suppose.”

“Lovely,” Malfoy mumbled. “We Malfoys have a great many properties that exceed merely ‘livable’, Potter, if you should wish to—“

“Shut it, Malfoy.  _Anyway_ ,” Potter interrupted, fondly, “the upshot was that if I agreed to learn the ropes of management and take on the responsibility for your lot, he’ll help me with  _my_ property—tit for tat, like. And he’s  _good_ , no question, your father—you Malfoys are rolling in it, even after reparations. So…”

“Yes?” Malfoys never felt hesitant, but Draco did. Hades, he was trembling, even with Harry to ground him.

“I said I’d think about it. Which I am,” Potter replied. He rubbed Malfoy’s arms and up along the hard cords roping across his neck and shoulders, stroking hard to release the tension apparent in every line. “Roll your neck around a bit, Malfoy—you’re far too tense. Come on.”

“Um,” Draco complied, seduced all too easily, and had the joy of Potter sliding his strong fingers across his nape and earlobes in a hypnotic sort of way. Other bits of him began to perk up completely uninvited. “Hmmm, Potter…”

“Better?” Potter asked, after a moment or two spent intently caressing. “Thought so— _I_  like it when you do it for me,” Potter smiled—one of the good ones, that pushed Malfoy’s ‘shag  _now_ ’ button right in. Then he gave Draco a slapdash kiss, half on the chin, which Draco instantly took him up on and turned into a far more serious matter.

That business lasted for quite a long time and involved some partial disrobing. The sofa, fortunately, was built for snogging, as they’d previously discovered.

* * *

 

It was some time later that Malfoy managed to steer Potter back to the subject of resigning his horrid job.

“This—this position, then, with my father—when might you take him up on it?” Draco asked, jiggling Harry over so he could inflate his lungs sufficient to draw breath. Potter was sprawled atop him, and no lightweight for all his slimness. All muscle, his Harry.

“Er— _if_  I do, and I’m  _not_  saying—“

“I know,” Malfoy interjected quickly. ”But…if you  _do_ —“

“Then starting late August, likely. I’d have to give notice first,” Potter thought aloud, “and then there’s settling up where we want to live—“

“Here, of course,” Malfoy jumped in. “I’m _not_  living with my parents, Har—Potter. Not hardly.”

“I should think ‘Harry’ would be alright now… _Draco_ ,” Potter smiled slyly. “Since you’re slipping up constantly. That’s six times you’ve said it in just the last hour.”

Draco rolled his eyes at him. Pinched him hard on his very fine arse.

“Idiot,” he pronounced succinctly. “Harry—why?”

Malfoy wasn’t questioning Potter’s allowance of a more intimate address; far from it. Harry’s permission for that intimacy was most timely, in Draco’s view, as he could hardly manage to remember where the dratted lines were, they’d been redrawn so often. No—Draco wanted a bit more than bland acceptance, inertia or the influence of Harry’s apparently endless and natural supply of heroic good will—if such a thing existed naturally—he wanted  _reasons_. Valid ones; ones that would last beyond a short summer, or a certain term of employment, or an acknowledged affair, even a very lengthy one. Because, of course, when Malfoys wanted things, they wanted all of them, with no exceptions.

Potter resettled himself, rolling to prop a pointy elbow on Draco’s sternum, leaning his back up against cushions of the sofa. This was not nearly as uncomfortable as Malfoy would’ve thought it to be, as Harry possessed a fine sense of balance and he was laid along Malfoy’s hip. Draco lifted his free hand up to caress the line of Potter’s exposed waist and trailed curious fingertips over to the small of his bared back. There was a dimple there, right on one side of the small of it; Malfoy hoped no one else knew of that as well as he did.

“There’s this thing, Draco,” Harry jabbed him once with a pointed forefinger, “it’s called ‘trust’. I realize it’s not common—“ Malfoy snorted. “But we’ve got it, you and I.” He followed up the poke with a glancing buss to Draco’s breastbone, licking the tiny red indent away. Malfoy’s shirt gaped so wide open it was almost off, exposing the faint summer-gold tinge to his fine-grained skin.

“And this has to do with your thrice-cursed Auror post in what way, Potter?” Malfoy drawled, not to be put off. He was quite pleased, though. He was often pleased, here in Grimauld.

“When you first turned up at St. Mungo’s, I wasn’t sure why, you know,” Harry went on, a frown appearing briefly and then flying away again. “You could’ve been really foul, just like you’d always been. Or pitying, since I was injured, or—or  _something,”_ he waggled his dark brows menacingly, indicating the ‘something’ would’ve been pegged as ‘beastly’. “But you weren’t. You just shut up and sat there like Sphinx and didn’t damned well budge an inch, though they desperately wanted you to. I, er,  _liked_  that.”

“Okay,” Malfoy replied, slowly, telling back over his recollections of the armchair. “And? What else did you like, Harry? I assume it must’ve been something a little more substantial than my determination.”

Harry glinted at him with that not-quite smile and Draco flushed, feeling interest flare up in his groin. Gods! but Potter looked just like Aggie did when he out on the strut—slit-eyed and positively reeking of testosterone.

“Yeah, well,” Potter’s teeth flashed disarmingly. “You were fit, too—you’ve always been, Malfoy. And I may’ve been a bit under the weather, but I certainly wasn’t disabled.”

Malfoy was still feeling the heady effects of a Harry who was stunningly healthy; the very recent memories sparked a resurgence of interest that was becoming more and more apparent. He was forced to subtly adjust himself so he could continue to pay attention.  

“Get on with it,” he growled, growing impatient. He really did require clarification before Potter distracted him again, essentially just by breathing. It would be excellent ammo to have in store the next time the Weasleyette came calling.

“So, yeah,” Harry went on, not missing that telltale fumble on Draco’s part. “I liked the way you stayed with me, the way you looked at me, touched me—especially at night, Draco, when you thought I was asleep? Well, I wasn’t, not every night, at least. Merlin, Malfoy—that was  _hot_.”

“Um,” Draco agreed, flushing pink. It had been ‘hot’, yes indeed, and now he was frightfully embarrassed—and even more aroused, if possible. It hadn’t always been Potter’s hand he’d held at St. Mungo’s.

“But the important thing was that you _stayed_. You were always there, Draco, no matter what. I could count on it—on  _you_. Just like you’d always been there, back at Hogwarts.”

“Well, of course I was there at Hogwarts, Potter!” Draco exclaimed. “I was enrolled there. That’s hardly a virtue.”

“No—not what I meant, prat,” Potter cuffed him again, lightly. “I meant you were always up my nose at Hogwarts, wanker. Couldn’t ignore you, couldn’t avoid you, Merlin knows I just couldn’t  _forget_ about you, either—no matter how hard I wanted to,” Harry grumbled. “Which, by the way, I did. You were always up to no good, Malfoy, or you looked like you might be. I don’t how much time I wasted chasing after your arse, Malfoy—and I had far more important things to worry about than  _your_  arse, pretty as it may’ve been.”

“That’s pleasant to hear, Potter,” Draco observed, dryly. He cocked a brow, considering. “Alright, so I ticked you off at school and then you liked it…too much? And then you hated  _that_ —and  _me_ — _because_  you liked it? Contrary git. Had I known I was giving pleasure—“

Harry kissed him, hard, tongue fucking everywhere, till Draco quite thought Harry might want to become a dental hygienist instead of an estate manager.  

“Shut  _up_ , Draco.”

“Right,” Malfoy coughed a bit, still salivating. “Er—you were saying?”

“Okay, then. What I was telling you was that I was used to you. You were a fixture—something permanent. Part of my life.”

Malfoy opened his swollen lips, eyed Harry speculatively and closed them again, refraining.

“Good boy,” Harry petted him. “You _can_  learn, then. Well…moving on. I actually missed you when you left school in Sixth Year, Draco—I missed you  _more_ , after the war was done with.”

Malfoy was hard-pressed not to break his jaw smiling. Harry grinned back.

“Happy, huh? Takes so little to please you—“

Draco’s turn; soft and sweet and nibbly ‘round the edges of Potter’s parted lips, distracting him utterly. Malfoy was glad of the springy cushions beneath them; they might serve to keep the mutual melt contained.

“Not ‘little’, Harry,” he whispered. “Not to me.” He ran his hand down the front of Harry’s already soggy trunks, insinuating fingers into the slit in the silk, fondling the sticky, half-hard length he found there.

“Ah!” Harry thrust against his palm, immediately rocking into an easy rhythm. “Just—there, Draco!”

“No!” Malfoy snatched his hand back, suddenly reminded of what they supposedly doing. “Shite, you git—you nearly got me!”

“Draaaaco,” Harry murmured, stretching Malfoy’s given name into a feline invitation to waltz off into unbridled lust. “You’re a cocktease….”

Malfoy shook his head sharply and hastily covered up his own bulgy bits with his unzipped trousers like a frightened virgin.

“Um— _no!—not_ , Potter! Not yet—not till you’ve finished—come on! Back  _off_ , Harry,” Malfoy stuffed his inhibitions firmly into his unzipped trousers and roughly shoved a snuggly, tentacle-handed Potter just far enough away to make him frown furiously and focus narrowly on his opponent. “I want to hear this, alright? Don’t stop just yet.”

“Oh—fine, fine, Malfoy,” Harry grumped. “Where was I, then?”

“I annoyed you; you liked it; I departed; you missed me—and then what? What made you feel—have, uh—um.” Malfoy didn’t quite wish to presume, even now.

“Feelings?” Potter smirked at him. “That where you were going there, Draco?”

“Dickhead—alright, ‘ _feelings_ ’, Potter. What caused you to have them, then? You certainly never let on you gave a fucking fig for me, Harry, not in all that time—in fact, I’m not sure I really believe you  _now_ , you know. This is all just a little too convenient.”

“What?” Harry’s eyes were huge and very innocent. “Accusing me of sucking up to the boss’s daughter?”  

Malfoy growled, silly as it was to hear such a sound issuing from a grown man’s throat. But Potter was insufferable and Mafoy wanted to know. Needed to know. It was  _his_ fucking armchair at stake, here. He wished to be able to sit in it, untroubled.

“Look,” he said. “I’m bloody tired of beating ‘round the bush, Potter. Are you planning on dropping me as soon as my father proves he’s a right arsewipe or your mates decide they’ve had enough of me—or, worse yet—what if the Weasleyette gets broody again? What then?”

“Are you going to leave if any of those things happen, Malfoy?” Potter countered, and fixed him with a very challenging glare.

“No,” Draco replied promptly. “But you won’t like my methods and I’ll likely annoy the crap out of you, Potter.”

“Duly noted. And your father is  _already_  an arsehole, Draco. A murdering, vicious, two-faced swine. However, since he spent the greater part of our meeting roundly berating me for leading you astray—which, cripes, Draco, I managed  _somehow_  from my sick bed at St. Mungo’s!— _and_ threatening to emasculate me if I ever so much as damaged one of those perfect blonde hairs, I will,” Harry stated, with great magnanimity, “deal with it. And your mum’s not too bad, considering.”

“Marvelous,” Malfoy said blankly. “You like it when  _he_  ticks you off? What are you, a glutton for punishment? Shall I tie you up next?”  

“No,” Harry said, firmly, though the ‘tying up’ bit sent his expressive eyebrows into an interested quirk. “I like it when it’s clear beyond any reasonable doubt he loves you, Draco. And you’re  _his_  son, so he and your mum must’ve been doing  _somethin_ g right, all this time. It helps make this business a little more palatable, and believe me, I need that. I don’t fancy spending the monumental amount of time in his company that this’ll require, but I can’t think of a single better revenge.  _Or_ —and this is what makes it alright to stuff my Auror job, Draco, so listen up—a more concrete, comprehensive statement  _I_ , as ‘Harry Potter’, can make about pureblood and Muggleborn relations to the whole friggin’ Wizarding world that watches us, including such useless warts on society as Doholov. Better than a fucking Cutting Hex, really. It’s an AK straight to the heart of any future Voldies your old gang might think of propping up, love. So,  _Malfoy_ , you can go right on calling me a ‘Saviour’ and a ‘Saint’, in fact. I won’t deny it.” 

“Come again?”

Draco was still stuck back on Harry’s rather alarming statement that his parents couldn’t have been all bad, since they’d managed to spit _him_  out. That was jammy news indeed for a former ‘Junior’ Death Eater.

 “Potter?”

“Where’s your inner Slytherin hiding, Draco?” Harry laughed. “This is my ‘revenge’ for all those years of torment,” he sniggered, poking a gentle fingertip between Malfoy’s ribs. “Think, think,  _think_. I’ve got my own personal Malfoy nicely in hand and a leash over two more—by the Galleons, which  _hurts_ , you know, worse than short hairs. Better yet, your everloving papa  _has_  to play nice with me since I’m shagging his precious heir—which all the world now knows, thanks to his prompt alerting of the  _Prophet_ —and he can’t very well tell me to sod off or murder me in my sleep without suffering the consequences from my adoring public.  _And_ —and this is totally  _killer_ —“ Potter was snorting again, hardly bothering to muffle his amusement.

“I don’t get you, but go on, Harry,” Malfoy sighed, resigned to Potter’s imbecilic gloating.

“Your mum  _likes_  me. Thinks I’ll be very good for you—keep you to the straight-and-narrow. And she’s got your father cowed, Draco—totally whipped! All that crying he was complaining of? Tactics! Fucking  _masterful!_  You should watch and learn from that woman—I wish they’d bung her straight into the Ministry. Save me grief.”

“Gah,” Malfoy said again, his mind a’reel in the aether. The prospect of Harry and his parents canoodling over his future was not at all what he’d expected—on the contrary, he’d had himself geared up for a battle royale over Harry’s Auror fixation—and here the magic carpet had been deftly ripped right from under his Italian loafers by no less than a thoughtfully staged and very underhanded coup on public opinion. But Potter was quite correct—frighteningly so—now that Draco examined his thinking—an intimate, ongoing and amicable connextion between House Potter and House Malfoy was tantamount to a world-wide nuclear disarmament pact in Wizarding terms—and his parents could stuff themselves if they thought they could successfully fight the ‘Boy Who Lived’s’ beloved persona. Draco wasn’t quite so chuffed over Potter’s way of putting this—he could’ve been far more diplomatic—but he supposed he was currently a ‘kept’ man, rather. Though of his own choosing and certainly not for long, Draco affirmed—a Masters Mundum in Potions was no small feat and it was an open entrée to practically anywhere in the academic world. A lapdog he was not!

But what all of Potter’s secretive machinations  _really_  signified was that Malfoy  _didn’t_  have to fight everything and anything just to keep firm hold of his newfound serenity. The war had been fought; was long over, apparently, and Potter, it seemed, was just as deft with words as he was with wands when it came to minor skirmishes.

Malfoy smiled into Harry’s tousled hair, a knowing smirk his old dormmates in Slytherin would’ve recognized instantly, and one that usually only occurred after he’d conjured up some great plan to ‘get back’ at a certain Gryffindor. It was true: Potter was devious; Potter was sly; Potter was even still an Auror at heart, or at the very least, a hero. But  _Harry_  was telling him—though not in so many words, precisely—that Draco was worth it, that he was more than welcome, and that he’d done the absolute right thing by plopping down his bum at St. Mungo’s and bloody well  _staying_.

“Right, then. Dinner, Harry,” Draco reminded him, tapping hard on the careless elbow digging into his spleen. “It’s getting on and you’ve a resignation letter to Owl to the Ministry after, so let’s order in take-out.”

 

_Finite_

 


End file.
